


Loss Ficlet: Sick Day

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (Ficlets) [19]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-22 03:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: Jamie has the manflu; Claire doesn't only play a doctor on TV.





	Loss Ficlet: Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is based in the same universe as the multi-part hurt/comfort fic Loss, but is in a different timeline than that story. 

~~~~**Loss (Modern AU) (Ficlet)**

**Sick Day**

“Oh, my love, you have the sniffles,” I had joked earlier that morning when Jamie kissed me.  I had chased his lips with my own through the air, just ghosting after them, when he pulled apart.  He had apparently broken apart so he could come up for air, snuffling in a way that was not at all _sexy_ but was decidedly _cute_. He smirked, reaching over to grab a tissue from the nightstand.  He blew his nose dramatically.

“It gets ye hot, me no’ able to breathe, then?”  My stomach flipped a little when he dropped the used tissue onto my nightstand ( _gross_ ) and returned his lips to me ( _neck, not mouth, thank God_ ).

“Yes, you are very sexy all stuffed up, James Fraser.”  

I brought my hand to the back of his head and steadied it there over his hair.  His sleep-warm curls slipped through my fingers as his mouth moved down the column of my throat.

“I’m elbows-deep in actual human illness all day, and you have no idea how much it pleases me to have my very own germ factory as a lover.”

“Och, aye. A lover, ye say?”

And then he had divested me of my sleep shorts and tank top like it was his life’s work.

His sniffles and the thoughtlessly-discarded tissue were forgotten as our bodies joined with little preamble.

We were easy in a way that made me wonder where my flesh began and his ended, our rise and fall synchronized.  He was gentle. We were sleepy and lazy, working for a release that was as quick as it was gentle – pleasure and burn, slow pitching against each other, a clench and a tremble and then a soft relief.

It was quiet in a way that made my skin glow and limbs relax but did not push my cognition to its limits.

A perfect Thursday morning.

When I rose to get ready for work, I was warm, well-loved, and had been made to feel beautiful by his touches, his kisses, his sounds.

Jamie flopped face down onto the bed in an act I attributed his sleepy arousal, his groan and half-hearted pat to my bum a testament to my skill and nothing more.

But by three that afternoon, when I was dictating notes into a small recorder and spinning in my chair in the doctor’s lounge, it was clear Jamie had more than just the sniffles.

My phone pinged and I grabbed the edge of the desk to stop the spin of my chair.

“Fuck,” I muttered, wobbling and wondering if the chair would tip under my weight. When it didn’t, I picked up my phone and settled back into the chair with my legs underneath me.

The text message was from Jamie.

_I cannae breathe, Sassenach._

It had become apparent to me early in our relationship that when Jamie was going to be especially dramatic about something, he would type in an exaggerated accent that didn’t typically extend from his speech to his writing.

I quickly typed a response. My fingers were surgery-tired and I had to delete every third word.

_Did your sniffles turn into an actual cold? Do you need nursing care?_

His response was almost instant; it was like he had been waiting for me.

_All of the above.  Also, did some Googling –_

I snorted, taking a sip of my afternoon smoothie (‘ _typical patient,’_ I thought ruefully) –

_and I ken I need a lobotomy for m’aching head._

Another text came in almost immediately.

_Home soon, Dr. Beecham?_

I couldn’t help the smirk when I hammered out a response:

_A S S. Norman French, not Anglicization, etc. BEAUCHAMP._

I checked my watch – I had already been at work for nine hours. I was mostly caught up on my dictation, had repaired a nasty messed-up shoulder and done an easy, boring fix to a not-that-messed-up knee. I had put in my time for the day.

I sent another message: _Aye. 45 to an hour. Will stop for supplies. xx._

His responses came in rapid succession.

First: _V sorry re: name._

Second _: Though I dinna ken if I’ll make it that long, but finnnnnnne. If I expire, I loved ye well, Claire._

I bit down on my lower lip, picturing him pouting with a red nose, surrounded by a pile of used and improperly discarded tissues.  

I responded: _If you die in our flat, I’ll kill you_.

When I entered said flat, it was blazing hot in a way that made me wonder if the paint would soon begin to blister and peel off the walls.  I slipped out of my shoes and removed my socks.  Even the hardwood floor was hot under my bare feet.

Jamie was sleeping on the couch covered by our duvet and surrounded by what appeared to be every pillow from our entire home. I set my work bag and the paper bag from hospital chemist on the end of the couch and studied him briefly.  

He looked like he was eighteen years old – every line that told a story of a man quick to laughter or a man who took seriously a weighty obligation was smoothed from his face. His chin was tucked into his chest and, other than the rise and fall of his chest, he was as still as stone. His mouth was agape and the corner was glistening with a small deposit of drool. His fingers were curled into the pillow, relaxed but pressing into the feathers and leaving a mark.

_Beautiful._

I pulled the bottled water and juice from the bag, opening each bottle just enough to break the safety seal. I set them on the coffee table in front of him. Against my better judgment, I reached forward to brush his hair from his forehead.  

He didn’t stir and his breathing did not change.

A small line of perspiration coated his Adam’s apple.  

_Fever?_

I frowned, carefully pressing the back of my hand on his forehead and then tested my fingertips along his throat.

“Sassenach?” he asked, eyes not opening.

“Yes, love,” I responded, crouching in front of him.

“I dinna feel good.  I cannae breathe.” He looked up at me.  His eyes were half-hooded: heavy, red, and sleepy. “I am sicker than anyone ye healed today, Claire.”

His hair flopped back down over his forehead when he shifted under the duvet. I pushed the slightly waved locks back from his brow again. His lips settled into a slight smile and his forehead rose slightly to press into my hand. His skin was warm, not alarmingly so, and tacky with sweat.

I couldn’t stop myself from smiling when I responded, “I know. It’s a medical miracle that you’re alive now, being that you’re unable to breathe and all.”

“Aye, Sassenach.  Heal me.”

I knelt on the floor in front of the couch now, my hand moving over and over his hair. My thumb stopped to brush over his earlobe with each pass.

“So, list your ailments, Mr. Fraser. Congestion, maybe a _little bit_ of a fever. What else?”

“My throat tickles, the headache is somethin’ awful. I went from just sniffly to feeling like I was being taken by the black death in fifteen minutes around lunchtime. Cannae get warm.”

“Black death – sounds serious. Any other symptoms?”

He snuffled a quiet, congested: “ _No._ ”  

“Any body aches other than the head?”

He shook his head.  I took four tablets of ibuprofen from a bottle and passed them to him with juice. My official diagnosis: regular cold, not even that bad of one, but I was sure that he did not feel his best.

“Four? Ye tryin’ to kill me, _mo nighean donn_?” His voice sounded scandalized, but before I could answer, he took swallowed them all with a big swallow of juice.

‘ _His throat is apparently fine_ ,’ I observed to myself. He could swallow. He could banter needlessly. My smile widening despite myself. This grown, strapping man with muscles that screamed “I never skip arm day… leg day… shoulder day… ab day… cardio…” was a bigger baby than most children I’d cared for.

“It’s a standard therapeutic dose. It will help with the head and the fever. You will be fine.”

“I have never been this sick in my life.”

“You should thank your immune system for that, then, because it’s a medical miracle. It’s a _cold_ , Jamie.”

I popped a decongestant out of a blister pack and passed it to him. He took it without complaint, just watching me.

“Do ye think ye need to listen to my heart? My lungs?”

I laughed, reaching into my work bag and pulling out my stethoscope to humor him.  I warmed it with a few deep breaths and my fingers before slipping it under his shirt and pressing it over his heart, looking away from him as I listened.  

“What do you hear?” 

I glanced at him only for a moment before refocusing my attention on counting with my eyes locked on the ceiling.  He was smiling, but he looked curious.

“I hear you _talking_. Shhh.”

When I was finished, I removed the earpieces and put them in his ears, positioning the flat-side of the drum over his heart again.  He listened for a moment and then smiled.

“Sounds fine.”  

“A clinically appropriate observation, Dr. Fraser,” I chuckled, removing my hand from his shirt and tucking the instrument back into my bag. My heart skipped a beat, thinking about the fact that I could someday be _Dr. Fraser_.

“Are ye feelin’ unwell, too?” he asked, his question a little bit tentative.

I furrowed my brow and tucked my hair behind my ears. I tried not to be completely offended as those sleepy-heavy-drowsy- _blue blue blue_ eyes focused on my dark circles and frizzy hair.

“I’m just tired and I need a shower. Do I really look that terrible?”

Jamie just shrugged, biting the curve of a smile back between his teeth.  I pushed his shoulder with less gusto than I would usually reserve for a physical retort to one of his less kind jabs.

“Ya ken, something… I feel bad.  I kissed ye this morning when I was sick. I made love to ye ‘til ye were weak and vulnerable. And now here I am… disgusting, filled with snot and phlegm… ready to infect you.”

“You _are_ disgusting,” I conceded, smiling back at him. 

I took another tissue from the box when he sniffled. He took it, wiping his nose gingerly. He looked a little abashed that I had not commented on the remainder of his statement.  He was sick, so I indulged him, returning my hand to his hair, my thumb to his ear.

“And yes, Jamie, you were very attentive this morning. It was lovely and I owe you a deep debt of gratitude for persevering despite your failing body.”  

He turned his face into my palm, his clammy nose pressing into my fingers like a dog seeking out cuddles. “Oh, Sassenach, aye. I’d give ye pleasure until my body fails me; until all that’s left is a soul wandering looking for its match.”

My responding glare was heavy with skepticism and I rolled my eyes so thoroughly that they physically ached. “You probably got whatever this is from me; I likely brought home from work. You enduring lad, you.”

I rose from the floor, giving his ear one last swipe with my thumb and kissing his forehead.  I pulled our duvet up under his chin, pressing the sides under the weight of his stomach and thighs and tucking the bottom under his feet.

“My most treasured medical trick is cocooning. You’re welcome.”

“Sassenach, ye fuckin’ goddess, this is the first time I’ve been warm today.”

“Good.” I leaned down, pressing yet another kiss to his forehead and lingering there with my fingers on his cheek. I felt bad for him, even though he was overreacting a little to what appeared to be only a minor cold.

His talkativeness meant that he wasn’t _that_ ill.

He shifted inside of the cocoon to look at me, his breath warm on my throat when he spoke.  “Go take yer shower; I’ll survive the next thirty minutes, but then I’ll need tending to, Sassenach. A little pampering and soup.”

“Oh, now I need to pamper you?” I laughed, giving his slightly fevered cheek a gentle pinch. “Man flu got you down, then?”

“Och, aye. Go. I must convalesce now.”

After showering and changing into some pajamas, I checked on Jamie again. He was asleep with one sweatshirt-clad arm draped over his forehead, having broken free from the duvet. His throat released soft, congested sighs. 

He was _fine_.

The last time Jamie had been sick, well over a year earlier, he had not stopped whinging over his “ _need_ ” for “ _the good soup_.” The next time I saw her, Jenny emailed me the Fraser family chicken soup recipe.  It took me a minute to find it in my inbox, but I thanked my lucky stars for it.

It was innocuous enough: a list ingredients and directions. It didn’t _seem_ that difficult, really. 

As a surgeon, I cut through flesh – healing with science, steps, and a little bit of heart.

Cooking was basically that, _right_?

Heat and proportions and careful cuts.

A heavy dose of faith.

I sliced vegetables with a surgical ease, humming and trying to convince myself that this would be fine. 

I seasoned the broth cautiously ( _a pinch of pepper_ _– what the fuck was a **pinch**?_ _Google answered the question_ ), stirred my vegetables and roasted chicken into the broth gently, put a lid on the pot, and said a quick prayer to the patron saint of cooks, Saint Lorenzo. ( _Jamie had told me all about Saint Lorenzo as he made pasta by, mixing eggs with flour, his hands working with a practiced ease._ )

It felt like it took a year, but the vegetables eventually surrendered and became tender, the noodles swollen. The broth was slightly salty, herby and _relatively_ delicious.

I said a quick prayer of thanks to Ellen Fraser and made up two bowls. Jamie was still fast asleep on the couch and I ate quietly next to him, half watching television, half focusing on his quiet slumber.

After I was finished with my soup, and halfway through an episode of _Orange is the New Black_ , Jamie started to wake slowly, his movements sluggish. He rubbed his eyes, childlike, and gently smacked of lips as he came to.

“Hey there, blue-eyed boy,” I whispered.  

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were puffy; he was breathing through his mouth. He did not respond.  Wordlessly, he shifted positions until he had his pillow on my lap and face against my stomach.  He again fell asleep, his hand tucked under his cheek.  I slipped my arm under the duvet and rested my fingers just above his heart, finding security in its even frequency and the chesty rattle of his deep breaths.

I hadn’t noticed that he was awake when he said, “My beautiful private doctor.”

“Sleepyhead,” I said, my own voice rough from disuse.

“Aye, how long?”

I checked my watch. “At least a few hours. Are you feeling up to eating? I made some soup. It’s not half bad.”

He nodded just slightly, the feeling of his nose bumping against my belly making me smile.  I rose when he shifted off of my lap and grabbed both bowls. I reheated his and filled a glass with cold orange juice.  When I came back out into the living room, Jamie was standing, fastidiously arranging a blanket over the chaise at one end of our couch.

He accepted the soup and breathed as deeply, his inhalation sounding like a snort.

“Is this my mam’s recipe?” he asked, his half-hooded eyes widening.

“Yes. I got it from Jenny some time ago.”

He looked like he was about to lose his legs from under his body and I quickly grabbed the bowl, the contents sloshing up the sides.

“Claire – I… uh…” He raked a hand over his face, all touches of his earlier congested flirtiness gone.

“Sit.”

He did and took the soup back from me, stirring it and tentatively dipping his spoon into the broth. 

He tasted a noodle.

“Ye dinna ken this, but… I… I…”

Jamie Fraser was rarely at a loss for words, but he was struggling.  I laid my hand on his thigh, brows furrowed and just waiting for him to get whatever it was out.

“I was so young when she died, ye ken that much. But, my… memories of her are foggy, but this… this here… is made of memories of her. The bit I can smell of it, the taste. I… uh… you…”

“Jamie, love, I know. You told me that last time you were sick.”

He turned and looked at me, his eyes as red and puffy as before, but now slightly watery.

‘ _Please don’t cry, please don’t cry_ ,’ I thought selfishly, unsure I could handle the sight of him weeping and sick, tears falling into a bowl of mediocre soup that was probably a poor facsimile for its original.

“I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

He nodded, licked his lips, and ate the soup slowly. I just watched, the television quiet in the background and my hand traveling up and down the length of his thigh and then coming to rest on his back.  When he finished, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“Thank ye.”

“Of course,” I whispered, my mind now chanting ‘ _please don’t cry_ ’ to itself.

We settled onto the chaise, me with my back to the cushions and Jamie between the v of my parted thighs, the length of his strong back resting over my belly and his head resting over my breast. I wrapped my legs around the tops of his thighs and draped my arms around his stomach, my fingers resting on the small sliver of skin between sweatpants and sweatshirt.

I traced mindless patterns there, watching the television and feeling our hearts come into sync with one another.

We slept like that, waking like we were on fire in the early predawn hours. Jamie’s body was still feverish. Mine was suffering from being trapped between a couch and Scot the size of a house for hours on end.  

We showered wordlessly and separately – Jamie first and then me.  

Between the heat lingering from our sleepy embrace, the warmth in the apartment, and the plume of steam that billowed from the bathroom after his shower, I almost went woozy.  I turned the tap as cold as it would go and stood in the water for a long time, letting it wash away the traces of our mingled sweat on my flesh.

I emerged from the shower, dripping wet and shivering. I toweled off quickly and slipped into a fresh t-shirt and pair of underwear.  

I was about to shut the light off and go to our bed when I saw it. Along the perimeter of the mirror, drawn in the warm condensation was a single lopsided heart with the postscript: ‘ _thank you.’_


End file.
